


Fomenting Pain

by done-with-ur-ineffable-bullshit (Gotta_Get_That_PMA)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Fights, Gen, Insecurity, Kinda, Secret Crush, Suicide Attempt, Swordfighting, but not graphic, but not that kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 05:42:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20148586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gotta_Get_That_PMA/pseuds/done-with-ur-ineffable-bullshit
Summary: Oh, no.It wasn't that CrowleylikedAziraphale at all, he told himself, but he had grown rather attached to the angel, simply by virtue of sharing each other's company over the last forty-five hundred years. It would be a shame if Hell sent someone to--"We want you to kill him." The finality in Hastur's tone made the rest of the message clear.Kill him or die trying, or else.During his stint as the Black Knight, Hell gives Crowley the most painful assignment of his life.





	Fomenting Pain

It was, in fact, a dark and stormy night. It was about to be a dark and stormy week.

The air was heavy and charged with electricity, though the storm hadn't yet begun. Crowley stood in the castle courtyard, watching the sky.

A voice behind him said, "Demon Crowley."

"Hello, Hastur," the demon replied without turning.

"Or should I call you the Black Knight, hmm?" Hastur came round into Crowley's field of vision and folded his arms crossly. "Been busy, have you?"

" _ Fomenting _ ," Crowley said with a lopsided smile, privately remembering his brush with Aziraphale.

"What? Is that some sort of torture?"

Crowley sniffed, "Just what they told me to do. Is there a reason you've called, or are you just here to make my immortal life miserable?"

"We have an assignment for you. A special one. We've reason to believe there's an  _ angel _ about."

Oh,  _ no _ . It wasn't that Crowley  _ liked _ Aziraphale at all, he told himself, but he had grown rather attached to the angel, simply by virtue of sharing each other's company over the last forty-five hundred years. It would be a shame if Hell sent someone to--

"We want you to kill him." The finality in Hastur's tone made the rest of the message clear.  _ Kill him or die trying, or else.  _

Crowley stammered, nodding gravely to cover his panic, "I, er, w’of course! Right away. Consider it done."

"It had better be."

Then Hastur was gone.

The sky broke and rain poured, soaking Crowley almost in an instant.

"Arggghhh! Shit! ShitshitshitshitSHIT!"

The bench caught fire where his fists had pounded it..

* * *

Crowley was standing across the great hall of King Arthur's court, hunting an angel. Aziraphale hadn't noticed him yet. He was busy laughing with the bearded man at the head of the table.

Crowley had learned in Rome that where there was good food, Aziraphale would be also. That was part of the reason it was always so easy to find him. Not that Crowley was admitting he followed his ethereal counterpart... He just begrudgingly understood that he could, most likely, be anywhere in the world right now besides damp England.

Yet he was here.

He told himself he was only making sure he cancelled out the angel’s good deeds.

Aziraphale delicately spread spiced honey butter on a chunk of bread and took a bite. His eyes closed as he let out a little satisfied sigh.

Crowley found himself smiling. Even before he had fallen, the demon had found angels to be a stuffy lot. They never looked around, only ahead. How to raise the soul numbers, how to advance the Great Plan, go here, do this… they never stopped to  _ enjoy _ things. Aziraphale seemed different. Here he was, keeping human company not for an agenda, but because he liked humans. He certainly loved their food, and he was so passionate about it that his face lit up just talking about spices.

_ Did he really have to do this? _

“Why hello, Black Knight!” exclaimed a female voice behind him.

The demon turned to find himself gazing down at Queen Guinevere. As human women went, she was beautiful. It had been appallingly easy to tempt her to fuck Lancelot. Crowley was pretty sure they would have, even if he hadn’t intervened.

“Lady Guinevere,” he said smoothly, bowing, “What a pleasure to see you again. How goes the feast?”

“Well enough, though I should be happy to get it over with and begin the tourney tomorrow. I have it on good authority that this will be an exciting one!”

“How so, my lady?”

“Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table will be competing!” He’s never lost a duel, though nor does he strike his opponents dead, even on the battlefield.”

“How typical of him,” Crowley muttered. An idea was forming in the demon’s mind.

“You know the White Knight? Then perhaps you’ll enter the tournament as well, and I can see you go head to head?”

A serpentine smile crept across Crowley’s features. “My dear Queen, I believe you’ll get your wish.”

* * *

Getting to the finals had been the easy part. A miracle here and there, and soon Crowley, alias Sir Anton de Marmore, was going up against Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table. Crowley had kept his helmet on while out on the field, and he was reasonably sure Aziraphale didn’t know who he would be fighting.

Good. That would make things easier.

A page came in carrying a jug of drinking water. “I did as you asked.”

“Good. Have a coin.” He flipped one to the page, who caught it.

”Your turn comes soon, sir,” the boy said timidly, “The crier has just stepped up.”

Crowley nodded wordlessly. Technically, demons couldn’t have anxiety, so why was his heart pounding? The air felt as thick as water in his lungs, and he was hit with a violent flash of dizziness that made his eyes cross, then it was gone.  _ Just a little longer, _ he thought,  _ then you can pass out. When it’s done. _

There was the trumpet. Settling his helmet over his head, he relaxed a little. No one would know who he was under his armor; no one could see his face or read his expressions. He was safe. He turned and stepped out of the tent, onto the field.

Aziraphale stood at the other end, helmet under one arm, smiling. The demon’s heart twisted in his chest as he paced slowly to the center of the field. They had known one another for so very long. He told himself once again that they weren’t really  _ friends _ \--they were on opposite sides, after all--but still, to do this to the angel would be cruel. Aziraphale was, for the most part, soft and gullible. He was a being of love. To betray that… no. He had to. The decision had been made.

They arrived at the center of the arena. Crowley held out a gloved hand and they grasped forearms.

“Good luck to you, Sir Anton,” Aziraphale said, “May the best knight win.”

Safe behind his helmet, Crowley didn’t bother making excuses for himself. His bottom lip quivered as he held back tears, nodding silently at his opponent.

Five steps back. The crier called, “Draw,” and then it was just them.

Sword fights are not quite as people tend to imagine them. Often they only last a few minutes, include considerably more footwork, and do not require fancy spins or parkour. Indeed, it only took about four seconds when Crowley lunged at Aziraphale, bastard sword held high in an attack that left him recklessly open. Aziraphale responded by grabbing the blade of his own sword and holding it parallel to block the attack. Shifting sideways, he let the now-interrupted sword fall harmlessly and bashed Crowley’s chest with his pommel. It wasn’t enough to seriously injure him, but Crowley was knocked back a couple of steps.

Without a word, Aziraphale returned to a defensive position.

Annoyed, Crowley repeated his folly. This time, he tried from the side, going for the spot just below the angel’s ribs. Aziraphale blocked once again and slid past him. Another hilt smash, this time to the back of the helmet. Crowley was knocked to the ground.

When the demon rolled up onto his knees--not an easy feat in full armor--his opponent was staring down at him expectantly. Crowley brought his sword up in a half-hearted attack, knowing he didn’t have enough room to swing the huge weapon with much force. Aziraphale batted it aside without looking at it. Still, even when Crowley was on his knees in front of him, the angel never moved to strike a serious blow.

Crowley was angry now, at Aziraphale for being so kind, at Hell for asking him to kill Aziraphale, and at himself for not being able to do what he came to do.

The demon stood. He took his helmet off, pushing back the chain mail coif. His braid fell behind him, nearly to his waist. His eyes had no whites, betraying his rage.

Aziraphale gasped. “Crowley! What the hell are you doing?”

“Fighting you, you bastard! Square up!” And with that, Crowley lunged and began raining blows on Aziraphale, so quickly the angel could do nothing but parry. They crossed the arena that way, and Aziraphale had his back to the wall when suddenly, Crowley stopped.

So did Aziraphale.

Crowley screamed at the sky in frustration. “Fight me, you useless pigeon! Strike back!”

“No,” the angel shook his head firmly.

“Listen to me!” Crowley stepped close, until their faces were inches apart. The smell of sweat and armor and wine and woodsmoke mingled between them. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, but Crowley was too upset to notice. “Angel, they’ve sent me after you. They want me to kill you. And unless you discorporate me right here, right now, I’m going to have to kill you.”

Aziraphale’s sword made a dull metallic thud as it landed in the dust. “I’ve known you for four millennia, Crowley. We may not be allowed to be friends, but we’re not  _ that  _ kind of enemies. Discorporate me, even kill me if you must,” he said, “I won’t hurt you.”

Crowley stared at the sword on the ground. Earlier, he had paid the page boy to throw the battle. It was easy to get him to, since he didn’t realize what he was doing. Satan’s sake, the boy probably thought he was giving a good luck blessing as he secretly coated Sir Aziraphale’s blade in holy water.

Crowley had been ready to die rather than take Aziraphale’s eternal life. After all, he had fallen, so weren’t the worlds better off with one less demon, rather than one less angel? He had hoped Aziraphale would take a well-aimed swing and leave him with a wound that wouldn’t heal. Instead, the daft angel had left him with a different kind of wound. How was he supposed to reconcile this...this  _ act of compassion _ with the knowledge that he was worth nothing, broken, burnt, unforgivable? Tears ran down his face, and he didn’t even bother to hide them.

“Crowley? Are you alright?”

“Don’t.”

“Crowley, I--”

“Don’t speak to me again, angel.”

Crowley walked out of the tournament arena, and when he got back to the castle, he packed his things, found a cave, and sealed himself in it for almost a century.

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo. I wrote this for an angst prompt; the line was "I won't hurt you." If you liked it (or if'n ye didn't), feedback is welcome, especially comments. Thanks!  
-Bill


End file.
